


it's a loop, a trick

by Helenish



Series: Here is a thing that isn't happening. [8]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, underage mumble mumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's funny, Arthur thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a loop, a trick

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [To pętla, to trik](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081507) by [Donnie_Engelvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donnie_Engelvin/pseuds/Donnie_Engelvin)



The base is an abandoned school in Finland. Nela’s running the project and doing the build; she’s still pulling together the rest of the staff, but it’s a small crew and the money is very good. Arthur goes back with her, owes her one from a job that went bad in Santa Fe. He’s never been to Finland, anyhow.

He drives in early, straight from the airport, tired and a little jetlagged. The school is old stone and worn tile and his feet echo in the hallways. He stops in the door of the gymnasium; they’re setting up at the far end under some high windows that spill in light over the warped wooden floor. Nela, little and round, is already hunched over a half-built model, talking to a big guy wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt. Arthur watches. The guy shoves one of the heavy oak tables into place and hauls a box up onto the table for Nela, the muscles of his arms twisting and bunching. The sunlight picks up little glints of gold in the hair at his nape. Shoulders, Arthur thinks, a little blankly. He really needs to get laid.

He shakes it off and walks down to the other end of the gymnasium, lets Nela kiss him on both cheeks and tell him he’s too thin, and then turns to be introduced to the new guy. The t-shirt, up close, says 'Vassar College' in faded maroon letters. That’s funny, Arthur thinks, looking down at the guy’s big hand around his, Cobb had that exact same t-shirt, Eames borrowed it that time--and then he actually lifts his head to look at the guy’s face and says,

"Eames."

"Arthur," Eames says. There’s an odd little twist to his mobile mouth; he doesn’t look surprised, but that doesn’t mean anything. Eames could always hide what he was thinking if that’s what he wanted. "You look--" Eames says. "you look just the same."

"You grew a little," Arthur says, surprised at how dry and calm his voice sounds. Eames is only a few inches taller, tall enough to meet Arthur’s eyes, but--Arthur remembers that shirt, hanging loosely from Eames’ lanky shoulders as he hunched over the breakfast table and ate corn flakes, the neck sloppy and sliding over the sharp point of his collarbone, and now it’s snug across his chest, the letters faintly stretched with wear, the frayed bottom edge sliding up a little over one hip.

"You guys know each other?" Nela says.

"Yeah," Arthur says. He realizes he’s still clasping Eames’ hand and lets go. "Look, I should probably get started; what kind of connection are you running here?"

"Satellite," Eames says, leaning back against the Nela’s work table. "we’re intercepting an unencrypted DVB signal. Anonymous, untraceable."

"Great," Arthur says. He chooses the table nearest to the door and starts unpacking.

"How long will that last?" Nela asks.

"No one encrypts DVB," Arthur says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eames snap his mouth shut. "too much inter-government red tape."

*

Arthur works; it's a complex personal conflict laid over a couple intersecting dynastic political alliances and everyone’s name has a lot of vowels. Eames and Nela are pinning photographs to the corkboards Eames found somewhere, talking, talking, a low comfortable murmur.

Eames stands in front of his table until he looks up. "I’m going in," he says, making a loose gesture at a couple beat-up armchairs in the corner, the PASIV sitting on an upside-down milk crate. "D’you still like to see the early build?" Arthur does; it fits better in his mind without all the distracting clutter that gets added in later, the potted plants, the weather, the blue sky, the distant horizon. He likes seeing the shells of buildings, bare as a pencil sketch; it helps him remember that it’s a loop, a trick, that he knows the way out.

"We need a dedicated translator in here now," Arthur says, flipping the page on a machine-translated phone transcript. They’ll be dreaming in English; the target is fluent. The new kid--Tim--will provide translation at the extraction-site. Non-native language dreams can be an advantage; marks feel safer with their secrets and their projections are often a little more forgiving, but, even with a good translator, the early prep is grueling and slow. "Nela needs too much of Tim’s time. Do you have a line on someone?"

"That’s your show," Eames says. "You don’t want to come with, then?"

"Later," Arthur says. Eames’ ring finger has been broken at least twice, once by a professional.

"All right," Eames says, and turns away.

Eames and Nela are still asleep when Arthur realizes that dusk won’t remind his body that he should knock off and get some rest; it’s high summer, the sun won’t set until nearly 11pm.

He stretches his arms above his head until his shoulders pop. He has a nagging headache that’s probably caffeine-withdrawal and he’s hungry; he hopes Eames doesn’t think providing food is his job as well.

There’s a small door at the end of the gymnasium which opens out onto desolate practice fields, an overgrown tangle of stiff grass, pale yellow and green, little adventurous sprays of wildflowers. There are no demarcations between the fields anymore, vines growing up around a few low bleachers, a little gone to rust. Arther tests one with his foot and then takes a seat, the metal pleasantly warm under his hands. A bee hovers, consideringly, over a pale yellow flower. Arthur, who came straight from a job in Laos, tries to decide what time his body thinks it is.

He’s still thinking when someone puts a chipped mug of coffee down next to him.

"You still take it light and sweet?" Eames says. The back of Arthur’s neck goes hot.

"I drink it black now," he says, and then. "I--this is fine, though. Thanks."

"Okay," Eames says. He sits down. Arthur takes a sip of the coffee. Eames’ body is so quiet, next to his, still, patient. "Is this going to be a problem, us working together?" he asks, finally. His voice is lower than Arthur remembers, and very even. "I can bow out; I’ll find someone else good you can use--"

"It’s not a problem," Arthur says.

"Are you sure?" Eames says, some of his old restlessness creeping back into his voice. "You won't even look at me."

"Sorry," Arthur says. He turns and looks at Eames; the sharp relief of the muscles in his forearms, a livid scratch on his jaw, healing well, his close-cropped hair, the creases beneath his pale eyes. "Sorry," he says. "I’m an idiot. Hi. How’ve you been?"

Eames smiles, quicksilver, brilliant. "Oh, fine," he says. "And yourself?"

*

"Is there some kind of dress code on this job?" Tim asks, the next morning, crossing his arms over his sweatshirt. He wrote his dissertation on 19th century Scandinavian industrial design; Nela brought him in to consult on the build.

"What?" Arthur says, looking down at himself. He’s just wearing a jacket and tie, plain white shirt. Tim’s eyes flick over to Eames and back to him. Eames is wearing charcoal flannel trousers and a robin’s-egg blue sweater. He’s not even wearing a tie. Arthur shrugs.

"Hm?" Eames says, looking up from his computer. He’s deep in a photography archive; part of the dream will take place in 1983.

"Nothing," Tim says. "Never mind." He’s working for peanuts; Arthur likes him already.


End file.
